these terrible tidings. The hope of Raynham
returned his look, perfectly calm, and had, moreover, the presence of
mind not to look at Ripton.

CHAPTER VI

As soon as they could escape, the boys got together into an obscure
corner of the park, and there took counsel of their extremity.

"Whatever shall we do now?" asked Ripton of his leader.

Scorpion girt with fire was never in a more terrible prison-house than
poor Ripton, around whom the raging element he had assisted to create
seemed to be drawing momently narrower circles.

"There's only one chance," said Richard, coming to a dead halt, and
folding his arms resolutely.

His comrade inquired with the utmost eagerness what that chance might be.

Richard fixed his eyes on a flint, and replied: "We must rescue that
fellow from jail."

Ripton gazed at his leader, and fell back with astonishment. "My dear
Ricky! but how are we to do it?"

Richard, still perusing his flint, replied: "We must manage to get a file
in to him and a rope. It can be done, I tell you. I don't care what I
pay. I don't care what I do. He must be got out."

"Bother that old Blaize!" exclaimed Ripton, taking off his cap to wipe
his frenzied forehead, and brought down his friend's reproof.

"Never mind old Blaize now. Talk about letting it out! Look at you. I'm
ashamed of you. You talk about Robin Hood and King Richard! Why, you
haven't an atom of courage. Why, you let it out every second of the day.
Whenever Rady begins speaking you start; I can see the perspiration
rolling down you. Are you afraid?--And then you contradict yourself. You
never keep to one story. Now, follow me. We must risk everything to get
him out. Mind that! And keep out of Adrian's way as much as you can. And
keep to one story."

With these sage directions the young leader marched his companion-culprit
down to inspect the jail where Tom Bakewell lay groaning over the results
of the super-mundane conflict, and the victim of it that he was.

In Lobourne Austin Wentworth had the reputation of the poor man's friend;
a title he earned more largely ere he went to the reward God alone can
give to that supreme virtue. Dame Bakewell, the mother of Tom, on hearing
of her son's arrest, had run to comfort him and render him what help she
could; but this was only sighs and tears, and, oh deary me! which only
perplexed poor Tom, who bade her leave an unlucky chap to his fate, and
not make himself a thundering villain. Whe